I possessed no timepiece and I was too far away to hear the chimes of the clocks in Lady Bridget’s parlour or Sir Damian’s study. The heavy clouds that had covered the sky during the storm had rolled away and now there was only a scattering of cloud, through which a quarter moon began to rise. I decided that when it was above the tall elm I could see out of the other window, which stood beyond the formal garden, then I would act.

The moon rose at last and I could put it off no longer. I decided I must take my possessions with me now. There was a large heavy table opposite the front door in the great hall. I would hide my pack and lute under it, where I could pick them up quickly after leaving the study. I dared not come back upstairs again. I removed my shoes and knotted them to the strap of my pack, then, taking a deep breath I eased open the schoolroom door and listened.

The silence was like a thick blanket over my head, but it was not quite dark. Two tall candles were always left burning in the hall at night, in case a servant was summoned and needed to find the way to the kitchen or the back premises. I ducked back into my chamber and put my own candle in my pocket. I could light it and use it to find my way round the study.

Silently I blessed the builder who had constructed a staircase so solidly that it made no creak as I crept down to the hall. I paused at the bottom of the stairs. Everything seemed still. I laid my pack and my lute under the table with infinite care, holding my breath with apprehension lest the strings of the lute might give me away. I should have padded them with a shirt, but it was too late now.

I lit my candle from one of those burning on the table and slipped to the door of the study on my stocking feet. No light showed from beneath, but I lifted the latch slowly, feeling sick with fear. What if Sir Damian should be inside?

All was darkness. I closed the door behind me, slowly, slowly, held up my candle and looked around. I had been in here only once, on my first evening, when we had briefly discussed the children’s lessons. Like his wife, Sir Damian had been willing to leave most of it up to me. There was his vast writing table, even more impressive than Sir Francis’s, several comfortable chairs, a heavy strongbox secured with iron bands and two locks, and, beside the hearth, a dog’s basket.

My heart leapt into my throat as Sir Damian’s wolf hound looked up and growled softly in his throat. I had forgotten the dog! I knelt down beside him and held out a trembling hand for him to smell. He had seen me about the house for a week, but not creeping into his master’s study in the middle of the night. The hackles bristled on the back of his neck and he sniffed my hand suspiciously as I held my breath. Then he sighed and lowered his head to his paws, but he continued to watch me closely. I got slowly to my feet, so as not to alarm him, and looked about the room. The thought that the dog might start to bark at any minute nearly paralysed me.

The letters, after all, were probably in the strongbox.

I looked at it helplessly. If that was where they were – if indeed there were any letters – there was nothing I could do about it. Perhaps there were no letters, and I was putting myself through this for nothing.

I moved across to the desk. There was very little on the surface, just the usual collection of ink and quills and paper. In fact the study was quite bare. There were only two books laid on the side of the desk. Sir Damian, I was not surprised to discover, was not a great reader. I looked more closely at the books. An English Bible and The Obedience of a Christian Man, by William Tyndale, both worthy Protestant works.

On a small table under the window there was an empty wine flask and . . . ah, this was interesting . . . three empty but used wine glasses. So Sir Damian had entertained two guests to a glass of wine here. Poley and his companion?

Everything else was bare. There was no court cupboard where something might be concealed. The desk was in fact a writing table, without drawers. Nothing. If there were any letters, they must be in the strongbox or in some other part of the house. Even under Sir Damian’s pillow. Well, I had done my best. A sense of relief washed over me. Now all I had to do was make my way to the stable, saddle Hector, and escape.

I do not know what prompted me to pick up The Obedience of a Christian Man. Something felt odd about it. I tried to flick through the pages, but they would not move. I opened the front cover and a cold sweat broke out on my neck and back. The pages of the book had been glued together and then hollowed out, to make a kind of box. Inside were three letters. I took them out with shaking hands. They were firmly sealed, but the addresses were clear. Two were addressed to Sir Anthony Babington ‘at His House Close by the Barbican in the City of London’, the third was addressed to the Baron de Châteauneuf at the French embassy. There was no indication of the sender. However, I knew that hand, having deciphered it often enough. It was the unmistakable handwriting of Thomas Morgan, the Scottish queen’s chief intelligencer in Paris.

I could not unseal the letters to copy them, nor could I remove them, but perhaps I now had enough information for Walsingham. Carefully, despite the almost uncontrollable shaking of my hands, I replaced the letters in the fake book in the same order, and laid the book in exactly the same spot at the edge of the desk.

I crept to the door, laid my hand on the latch and listened. Nothing. I blew out my candle, pinched the wick so that the smell of smoke would not give me away, and eased the door open. The dog stirred in his bed, stretched and started to cross the room to the door. If he escaped into the house, he would give everything away. I closed the door hurriedly behind me, aware that it make a noise, but there was nothing I could do. The dog whined and scratched at the door. Hastily I shoved my candle in my pocket and retrieved my belongings from under the table.

The dim light in the hall enabled me to find the door which led from behind the stairs to the kitchens and pantries, but once it was closed I had to wait, despite my pounding heart, until my eyes could cope with the very little light that filtered through a small window from the outside. There were so many things one could bump into, making one’s way through here, that I must take it slowly. I thought I could still hear the dog whining as I crept along the kitchen corridor, past the fish room and the pastry room and the game larder. At last, here was the servants’ outside door. To my relief I found that the Fitzgeralds did not bolt their doors at night, out here in the country, for slipped bolts would have given me away as soon as the kitchen maid came down in the morning. I eased the door open, but the hinges on this door were not kept so well oiled as those on the inner doors of the house. It groaned loudly. First the dog, whining and scratching, now this. Someone was sure to hear me. I thought the youngest scullery boy slept in the kitchen. What if he were a light sleeper?

I pulled the door to and ran across the yard to the stable, wincing as sharp stones cut into my feet. There was no time to put my shoes on. The stable door was partially ajar, for the thundery air had been heavy earlier in the evening, and I thanked Tom silently for leaving it open to give the horses air. It meant there was just enough light to find Hector’s tack. He whickered a welcome.

‘Ssh,’ I whispered, stroking the velvet skin between his nostrils. ‘Don’t give me away now, lad.’

I fumbled with the buckles on the blanket, trying to hurry too much. Slowly, slowly. Otherwise I would never have him saddled. I laid the blanket over the partition at the side of the stall and lifted the saddle on to his back. Easy, now, tighten the girths. Hector stamped his foot. He seemed as eager as I to be off. He took the bit like a lamb and despite more fumbling I had the bridle on and my saddlebags strapped in place. Everything seemed to take hours. My heart was pounding so fast I thought I could hear it, through the rush of blood in my ears. Now to fit my pack into one of the saddlebags. I pushed my shoes into the other to balance the weight a little, and wriggled my shoulders into the strap of my lute case.